The second i snap out of my dream and back into the realism of it all, im hoping second by second that your actually here beside me and that i wasn't just dreaming out loud. My body and mind, coming back to the surface of it all, my breathing pick's up and my sense of feel and smell has resurfaced. I smell the sweet and light smell of your hair but im not sure if it's just the after math of my dream. starring at this wall, im afraid to roll over, because if i roll over and your not there i don't know how well i'm going to do or if ill even continue with my day. If I can continue this dream of you, i'll sleep forever, i'll never open my eyes again. I brace myself, cause it's time for me to roll over. Tightening my muscles, stretching my skin, tired bone's cracking, hair moving in all direction's, clothes moving out of place and indenting the bed. I squeeze my eye's tight, causing my pupil's to shrink, hoping that when i open these door's and let my pupil's increase to normal size, there your perfectly shaped body will be. I imagine it before i dare to reveal the truth. The blanket's fall into place where your curves indent, your hair in a wave like the pattern flowing wave's in the ocean, your arm being tucked just under your chin where it meet's your other arm and after a few seconds i can't bare the taunt my imagination is dangling in my face, so i open my eyes and there you are. Exactly how  I imagined it. I take a moment for all this to register, as if i had just won the lottery. In that moment i find myself wrapping my arm's around you and your finger's sliding up my arm and into my hand to lock with mine. This is truely the meaning of "Goodmorning", so goodmorning, babe.

So let us now place monetary value on information.
Let us return to the source,
Mining & prospecting that fertile intel seam.
To wit: WWII and G-2 shenanigans.
Wild Bill and OSS-capades,
Artificial disseminations.
Partial recriminations.
And PSYOPS:
A literary nightmare--
THE CYCLOPS from The Odyssey,
For example,
If you lack your own,
Your own personal Bogey Man.
Or men. For me:
Allen Dulles or Richard Helms.

The Intelligence Community:
It was a small tightly knit crew,
Less than battalion strength in 1942;
A few myopic soldiers,
Who, although could barely type,
Were still too cerebral to
Waste as infantry fodder.
It was a huge converted Army-green warehouse,
Space strategically partitioned,
Sectioned off into cubicle-like spaces,
By giant 4-drawer file cabinets
Standing tall like MPs,
Sentinels & Guardians,
Monuments to pre-electronic storage,
Data relatively comprehensive, and an
Archive secretive & intimidating.

Within the Army-green incunabula,
Scattered throughout the intel landscape,
Here and there a few commissioned officers,
A smattering of college psychology majors,
Personalities with predilections,
And penchants for mind games.
These self same WWII vets,
Would morph into Cold War Mad Men.
Stalwart, stouthearted men of Eisenhower,
And J. Walter Thompson,
De-mobbed, as they say in the UK.
Consumptive.
Self-indulgent,
Particularly when it came to the kids;
Children of the peace,
Called Baby-Boomers,
An entire generation enabled & destroyed.
Who would produce little of value
Except medical marijuana and
Coupons, clipped by that sober ruling class—
Fat interest-bearing college-loan portfolios
Held by that neo-Calvinist Elect: The 1%.
Fat cats one and all,
Loaded dice & canasta cronies--
In concert a stacked deck,
“Una mano lava l'altra.”
The words of my namesake--
My grandfather Giuseppe--
His vowels reverberating,
Rattling in my dreams.
Not friends, but
Fiends in high places, like
The Fed and dark liquid pools.
Thank you, Barack, for
Fooling us again.
For giving us
“Belief we can believe in.”

But I digress.
It was when the Government Secrecy Act,
In all its transnational incarnations,
Embraced capitalism in a big way,
Elevating the ideology to whole-Earth saturation,
Systemizing the ethos of Darwin,
Into one global Moby ****,
One solitary leviathan,
A multi-level marketing labyrinth,
Where wealth is the end game--
Greed: pure, unbridled & unrestrained.
Bond--James Bond—
Did his bit, supplying catchy
Slogans & tag-lines:
“For Your Eyes Only.”
“On a need to know basis.”
“Confidential Information.”
“Top & Ultra-Top Secret.”
“Hush, Hush & a Bag of Chips.”

The sealed letter sits in a locked drawer,
In that stout desk,
In the Oval Office
In The White House,
“To be opened by my VP in the event of my death.”
Another staggering work,
Of achy-achy-heart breaking genius,
The culture commoditized,
A disease containing its own cure,
Assayed, graded,
Portioned & packaged.
Priced accordingly,
To a logic that goes something like:
“Anything this tightly controlled,
Anything the government deems to be
This illegitimate and/or & secret
Must be really, really God-awesome,
Must really be Da ******* Bomb.”

Brother Coolidge was right:
“The Business of America is Business.”
And INFORMATION:
“The Most Valuable Commodity on Earth.”
So said Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III,
19th Century robber baron, and
Consummate Fat Cat.
Get the picture:
We were smoking cigars and sipping cognac,
Mighty comfortable in leather armchairs,
Muted billiard clicks,
Punctuating the atmosphere
In this spacious lounge,
His East Side
Downtown & private
Manhattan club.
I, his guest, had not the slightest idea
Why I was there.
"By God, man," he went on,
My eyes speared by his laser gaze,
His bushy eyebrows,
His monocle.
His bulbous nose;
His thick wet mustache.
And those EYES:  
Those crazy,
Insane eyes.

"I am talking about a profound change,” he continued.
“Back when the steamship
Gave way to electronic wireless radio."
He puffed smoke,
Removing the cigar from his mouth,
Holding it,
Examining it critically for a moment.
"I'm talking about communication,
Instant communication
With business associates, &
Cronies far away,
Way out there,
Far beyond the places we know well.
Picture it:
You're running a fleet of
Ramshackle Filipino banana boats,
Out of some nameless cove,
Indenting the south coast of Mindanao.
A cyclone comes out of nowhere.
Good God--there’s sixteen banana-packed
Coal burners lying on the bottom of the Celebes Sea.
Think about it:
You've got telegraph radio.
Everyone else has the post office.
Now, I ask you:
‘Who's going long,
Who’s getting rich on the
Caracas Banana Exchange?’
Good Lord, man, it would be
Like being omniscient!"
“This very conversation,” he went on,
“Could well be a verbatim transcription
Of a conversation right here in this very room,
Between people like: J. Pierpont Morgan
And some lesser Gilded Age nabob;
Some Astor, some Rockefeller,
A Gould or Vanderbilt,
Whitney or Duke,
Some Frick or Warburg--
To name just a few, old sport.”
He stopped suddenly.
He looked down at his hands,
As we both realized he had counted these names
Out on his fat curled fingers.
He looked at me and smiled.
I was afraid.
Why had I been invited to this meeting?
I smiled back at him,
Doing my best to mirror his
Carnivorous menace.

I knew it.
He knew it.
He knew I knew it.
Mr. Whitehead’s growling rabid jowls,
His slobbering canine smile held me steady.
“Okay. Touché. ‘Ya got me.”
He shook off the phony smile,
An absence, accentuating
His stare: lethal, carnal & rare.
“I never had much formal schooling.
I’ve been hungry.
Hungry enough to know for sure
That the correct fork,
Don’t mean ***** from shinola.
When I’m dining out, fancy-like,
Me manners is the least of me problems,
Far less important than
The dinner chit they
Hand me after I slake
My thirst & appetite.”
Again, he stopped suddenly,
Recognizing that, perhaps,
He’d revealed too much of his
Bedford-Stuyvesant pedigree.
He turned again and stared at me.
“None of that,” he said.
“None of that means squat to me, Boyo.
What matters now is I’m rich.
I’ve got mine, By God,
And ******* It!
Tough ***** on the rest of you losers;
The rest of you fecking whiners can go
**** yourselves over at Zuccotti Park.”
He pounded the armrest,
The padded armrest of the rich Corinthian leather—
( . . . ***, Ricardo?
Get your Montalbán
Mexicano ***, back in
Random Access Memory Land,
Where you belong.
**** ya’ Fantasy Island
Hospitality, Mr. Roarke,
Go be wrathful Khan Noon Singh,
Somewhere else.
Now is not the time, or,
Let me rephrase that:
This narrative will not allow your meme here . . .)    

Whitehead pounds the armrest again.
“My point is this:  
None of JP Morgan’s decidedly,
un-nattering lesser nabobs of negativity . . .”
BAM!  Again, he pounded the leather . . .

(Back in your ******* hole, Spiro!
Do you realize just how far back,
Just how far back
Maryland’s reputation
Has been set back by your venality?
Not to mention any shot at ethnic assimilation,
The rest of us grease ball non-Wasps
Have in this country?
You ******* Greek!)

I stopped thinking
When I realized Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III
Was reading my mind.
“So that’s what it’s really all about,” he said,
Rank smugness in his voice.
“So, I’m just a nouveau riche upstart,
A socially inept parvenu,
Yet they still let me
Join their tony clubs.
It chaps your ***, Boyo, don’t it?
I’m still Scotch-Irish, and
A WASP, Laddie.
Something your skinny
Greaser-Guinea-****-Spaghetti-*** ***,
Ain’t ever gonna be.”
But I digress, again.

So I joined one of Uncle Sam’s
Lesser-known clandestine services,
An assignment appropriate to my ethnic identity,
Namely GLADIO in Italy,
A NATO stay-behind operation &
Cold-War comedy.
I infiltrated the Brigate Rosse.
I drove the Aldo Moro kidnap vehicle.
I cooked minestrone for General Dozier.
I sliced off J. Paul Getty’s ear in Calabria.
Ironically, I lost my hearing during
The Stazione Bologna bombing.
I am consequently pensioned off,
Off both the radar and the payroll.
Years later now,
I live in one of those gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55, sunny southern California
Lunatic asylums.

Most days I am drunk at 9 AM.
I fill Bukowski mornings,
Conjuring up Jane Fonda,
Jazzercised in camo spandex.
She is high atop a Vietcong tank in Hanoi.
Or Daniel Ellsberg
Enjoying a second act in American politics,
Praising Snowden & Assange,
& Bradley Manning,
I summon up the ghosts of
Julius & Ethel,
Benedict Arnold,
Rose of Tokyo & Mata Hari—
And Ezra exiled at Rapallo,
And John Walker Lindh,
A Yankee Doodle Dandy,
Born in Washington,
District of Columbia,
By way of Afghanistan,
Taliban Americano,
Kangaroo-courted,
Presently residing at the
Federal Correctional Institution
At Terre Haute, Indiana.
Spies.
Traitors.
Saboteurs.
And Poets?
No longer capable of keeping secrets.
Desperate now to tell
The truth.

Have you ever noticed
that tail lights reflect
off tire-worn roads
when sun and all
have gone asleep?
A pair of red glow
just seems to float
through space
like a reverse halo
behind and below vehicle
on its 2am way elsewhere.
And how about the fact
that windshield wiper and turn signal
never truly-precisely-
exactly-rhythmically sync?
One clicks and blinks,
the other dryly whaps,
on that first swipe,
of course,
just when light mist
begins to stick
and the exit approaches
at a slick
sixty-five-miles-an-hour.
Turn down the volume now,
it's time to pay attention.

Candle wax doesn't always
melt directly inward.
Sometimes it does dome
perfectly,
which makes it
all the more fun
to push further.
Other times it just bows out,
as if to say,
"There'll be no addition
to the amount of light
I'll be giving you tonight.
You'll just have to bend me in
and pray for a split-less base,"
as hours, seeming like minutes,
in minutiae,
are spent burning our tobacco
and circling our teacups
and laughing effortlessly,
indenting pillows and rugs
and us keeping so, so quiet
as not to awaken ourselves.

Waxing is always
a chance worth risking
because, worst case,
we can inflame another dancer
while we chat
and hope that,
just this once,
God help us,
we realize
our stars align.

You drive in
circles and circles and circles
in a stuffy car
constantly searching
for the best possible space.
Stopped and waiting
for person after person
who clearly find it acceptable
to walk in
the
middle
of
the
street
Gritted teeth
Fingers gripped, indenting the
cushioning of your steering wheel
You imagine your
parking angels laughing
at your ridiculous prayers
playing harps to
accompany your misery.
You felt as if you haven't
taken a breath in
quite some time
as your sweat-drenched collar
seems to be tightening.
Frustration is digging ulcers
as if you're ready to just
crash your car right
into the front of the store
and,

Finally

you just settle
for the space in the way back.
Nothing to exactly brag about
at your next dinner party.
Settling is a part of life you suppose.
The door slams and you lock it.
A few paces in
and
well,
you find yourself
surprisingly
enjoying
the long walk,
this scenic route.
You remember how nice it is
to actually be outdoors
and to see some clouds
and birds and empty
noiseless air.
You laugh a little to yourself
You slow your steps and breathe.
A car honks at you for standing
in the middle of the street.

Tapping scabs smolder my face; predictable
And prophecy, like owning a, “dead man’s hand,”
Parallel the pistol at your back.
It all began when the pen’s been dropped,
Somewhere untouchable; beyond claw,
Sooner the excuse as I’d long forgotten, “run.”
When drink’s not enough and, “escape’s,” the
Only to embrace oblivion, so it is and
So wrought, a solid right-hook.

Executed in pandemonium and
Scrambled eggs upstairs,
I scratch a different sort of stubborn
Come a morning in between graffiti,
An anxiety born an impatience for an already evening
And, “newborn,” as I look for the
Baby’s skin beneath battered lash;
But I’d killed that boy long ago.

It’s when I find the green in between cracks,
Concrete pervades and poisoned memories of mother,
Return; they’re scratched upon the stone,
Carved under cheek, knotted in lumber and heart.
I’ve hammered the point upon slab
And before and before and after;
Indenting the first letter to my name, remember me,
Whilst continuing to procure this numb
Nearing necropolis.

The fight’s last night, but the blister’s
Every day, every hour and every minute;
Eternity, as I trace my cheek with *******,
Once with a ring, and the other
A broken knuckle, swollen in a
Twenty-second attempt to never let go;
One more second or so and so,
Ticking, “21,” I fold, letting ropes conjure false hope
And only after the hands have grown frigid.

So much the longer after my heart had
And so much the better.

Above the clouds of Tunhill
High above the lands of Arangrad
Stands a figure shrouded
The Rains at his command

Pounds of steely muscle
Fur that sways
All shall tremble
Beneath his waves

Waves of might
Shows of power
Claws of steel so sharp
A hide nails dare not mark

There he stands
Still as night
Calmly though
The stars in fright

On his back
A banner of black
Made naught but tears
And a soaked blood bath

His eyes gleam strong
His gaze far reached
Along his brow
Furrows do reach

Fought hard battles
Turned many sour
Taught many to stand
And all to cower

Beneath his crown
Is all that matters
Nations far and wide
Forced to stagger

Feet of stumps
Roots do grow
Follows reach
Across the globe

Lands to him
Naught but strides
All shall come
Across his eyes

One is shadow
One is flesh
A metaphor
Never to rest

Vigorous gale
Lets none fail
A tattooed sight
For minds so frail

A silvered coat
Makes a mired mail
For none has scope
Fall beneath him - wail

How can you hope
To better yet
Come across one
With broader chest

One so mighty
Cares for all
Enemies of ours
Oh how they fall

Pride to be
One of ours
A mighty warrior
From our own house

The staggered foe
The blunted blade
All are similar
In certain ways

For how can they
Hope to last
Against sharpened stone
Built so fast

A force of nature
Belligerent foe
To the cosmos
Ones to show

Magnanimous hatred
Bitter so
Fought hard beneath
Sweltering tones

For ones creation
Is not wider known
A tremendous being
Moulded so

On fields of battle
Amidst the throng
Deep beneath
The waves that thrown

A king laid flat
A warrior flayed bare
A sorceress so
Shared malevolent stare

Powers of life magic thrown
Used angrily - outwards
Caused a reaction
None could have known

For too much life force
Causes all to grow
To enormous proportions
To then explode

But once or twice
Events conspire
That none could say
Gods would have aspired

For one such case
Where moments ago
Stood a young wolf
Unarmoured and blown

Now stood the force
That would become known
As the one above
The clouds we call home

A wolf still
If even close
But one to rival
The gods own prose

There he stood
Indenting the ground
With his new proportions
And staggering prowl

He gazed once forth
At bewildered witch
Then tore her apart
Aspire his wits

Then his great head lifted
Splattered with gore
To the lines of foe
Butchering his blood

And so he turned
With nothing but claw
Rendering steel
And oh so much more

On he went
With unholy vigour
Ripping and tearing
None saw it quicker

And once he was done
Drenched in the foe
His fur seeming to feast
On the battles below

The great wolf stood
And addressed his great nation
For beneath him stood
men from his station

He raised his proportions
And gathered himself
Rose to his height
And met all above shelf

With silvered tongue
He spoke for a time
And before him kneeled
Every single one in kind

For the wolves of his nation
Astonished you see
Now saw him as greater
Than any could be

Now as they knelt
Awaiting permission
The great wolf roared
all doubts deigned submission

And once he was done
And all had washed their blood
He spoke once more
But then only once

the words he spoke
Shall be etched in stone
Forever and always
To times unknown

Words of a leader
Words from the foe
Words that will follow us
To our graves and below


“I am the wolf
The one to be followed
I will be named king
And awash all of your sorrows

For i am a wolf
But now greater grown
And all that shall know me
Should name me this so

The mightiest among us
A powerful foe
To any before me
Who would seek hate to sow

A name i shall have
A name oft too much bitten
But for a ruler to lead
He must have his ambitions

Call me the wolf
A great king - A great man
Felled the foe
Saved our lands

For as my father
Named me as an heir
I shall be named
The Wolf King, of Zubair

She stands among the grey scape with
So many muted colours inside her.
But today is a day of monochrome miasmas-
Of grey gulls that skim the pewter river
With wings that know such measures.

The greyness leeches her to the technicolour
World she knew long ago
Somewhere down the river.

A cauldron of rage wages above her
Filled with the bursts of brigands of
Grey restless beauty.

There's a rainbow now!

As it archly
Shows its palette she sees the separation
Appear ever nearer...
Above the rainbow is cobalt
Beneath it a merely flat grey.

Underneath her umbrella she enjoys
The puttered thwacks of soft water indenting
Thin fabric with a firework crack.
Suddenly she's back
Her shoes are black and her eyes are grey.
She wishes everyone was a million miles away.
She wishes everyone could stay.

I wrapped my hands up in your hair
to feel the pulse - your heat, your beat.
I reach again
feel naught but air:
the essence of a love,
retreat.

Often do I venture back,
roam into an abandoned past.
Dis-embalm these memories true,
packed on ice
yet damp with dew.

Cat treads heavy the surface of heart,
imprints
      indenting,
              g,         d
            n             e
           i                 s
         d                   c
        n                      e
       e                         n
     c                             d
   s                                i
a                                   n
                                       g,
scarring my thoughts, my rhythm,
my whole.
Shifting my sacrum,
sheathing my soul.

Doggedly I trail behind
with a twisted eraser
      just "try the eraser"
      you said with a smirk.
But still I reach and I reach and I reach
rapt in your attentions as a wave to a beach.

There is a grain of sand in my eye
that can't be washed away.
Salt, fresh, spring
they all caught her.
But I've tried every type of water.

Still you persist,
a rotting orange's mist.

I allowed you to come; I also let you leave.
I remember with crude clarity
what happened in between.

Go, my love you let.
Go, your love I let.
The only question now I have:
Why then can't I forget?

You just scattered the pieces.
How can you break what's already broken?
The comforting clench of the hand around the knife.
Those eyes.
The chill.

But those eyes, they make me believe.
In love.
In you.
I believe.
Yet I cry.

The stick of the point indenting my skin reflects the light of the situation.
Your eyes.
"I would never hurt you."

I hate you.
My eyes.
Filled with the tears from my non exsistant heart.
The heart that is yours.
The heart that is yours.

"I would never hurt you"
"You're the one thing I care about"
My eyes glisten as they stare into yours.
"I hate you"

I've been writing this novel
For a long time
As long
As I have
Been alive
Centered in lead
Scratching on paper
Cursively engaging
Building in plot
Filling in the margins
With side machinations
Occasionally
Pausing
Lingering on a particular line
While taking the care to design
A bookmark
(Bookmarks
Those crafty place keepers
Designed in paint and pen ink
Thicker than page
Indenting the chapter
Permanently altering
The binding)
Ornanate slips of cardstock
Decorated
In delicate flourish
Complex mandellas
Sacred geometric design
This novel I am writing
It's leafs dogtoothed
Still awaiting it's leather
Porcupined and thickened throughout
Promises
To be the intrigue of a lifetime
If only for the art itself

(JL)

I lay on stained mattresses amidst oil paintings and mirrors
Lattice veils of mascara run down my pallor cheeks
As I stare down at the blood pooling in my outstretched hand
Reflections stare down at me, winged ******* and soldiers
All eyes across the room staring down with me, to the checkered floor
My pale pink toes brush the tile, the soles black smudging the gloss
White, blaring, chandeliers above, candelabras with jeweled adornments
Gracefully falling downwards like tears, my own indenting upon satin sheets
Wrapped tight around my legs, falling loose around my shoulders
Caping me, hanging open at my ******* bruised and swollen
Though I've no babe, and so, I clench my eyes against the staring
Chiding me, beguiling me, burned in behind my eyelids there,
you. are.
Whispering like chiffon, along with the fabric of my dress beneath your manicured fingernails
Tracing the edges of my gooseflesh and regaling me with tales of woe
and wonder, of the conquests of art, fine frames and fantastic auctions
Our freedom, held capricious on the winds of chance, before
Now love, our love, your love, provided such an opportunity, a chance to fly away
This you mumbled to my neck with adoring kisses
as relieving as fresh rain against my skin, hands tuning the zipper along my back to play such a fine melody like a phonograph
A pretty thing, to be molded by such hands, with as much regard as handling a Monet painting

I see it clearly after all

I rolled over onto my back.
I reached up and wiped the sand beaches from the water line of my eyes.
My gaze fell to rest focusing on the corner of my ceiling where three planes came to an infinitesimal point.
The stale air reluctantly circled over and over through the whirling dervish blades of my floor fan.
I tossed to the left. My shoulder embossed with the intricate design of the thin sheets.
I ran my fingertips over every sullen divot in my flesh.
They felt like the imprints of dusty fingertips you left on my soul.
And though I knew better, I blamed you entirely for those wagon wheel ruts, muddy canyons I am still striving to cross over.
I realized it would only take two planes for us to meet.
The newborn air gladly pushing up the wings.
The plane indenting itself into the sky like a seal into melted wax, like the convex curve of a line.
But some lines are never supposed to truly meet.
Like the horizon.
The sky and the sea.
Running parallel.
Running indefinitely.

Sit there just as you have, under the pale moonlight, with your legs crossed. One over the other, just so. You have your lighter in your hand as you light another cigarette. It's red light a small beacon that reveals your face in the dark with every puff. You've never said a word nor a phrase nor even a short sentence, but what is it that flows from your lips but your words in another form, eating up the silence and leaving no room for mine. What would I say to you, while I clench my pipe between my teeth, subtly indenting the wood. We've said enough, we've said all there is to say, taking each others words while staring across the table. We're just two unknowns sitting in the dark exchanging imaginary glances, wondering what it'd be like to cross the line. Cross it and see the reaction. Is it how you feel? Ready to burst ready to run, ready to say STOP. And walk away, back to the light and the sounds and all those other people. I've tried to stand, but it feels as if I've been struck behind the knees. You're taking another drag, with your legs crossed just so. And somehow I know its the same for you.

Lock on the door. Lust and desire
fill their minds. “Kiss me poetry kiss
me on your porcelain floor kiss me
against the wall” she says. She begs
for more she begs to feel his fire all
over her skin and from within. Fingers
in the curls of his hair. Nails in his
skin, love fumes in the air. Her skin
slapped on his. Reaching down inside
her thighs to her knees he pauses as he
switches directions indenting his fingers
into her flesh. This couldn’t get any better
than this. But reality was harsh and cruel
for it was just a daydream she made up in
her head while sitting alone in her room.
But soon he’ll make her dreams come true
as he promised to kiss her in the light of the
day and the light of the moon* ~

Your teeth act like corrosive agents
for the insides of your cheeks, taking
one layer down with every second thought
and anxious regret, spilling blood
onto your tongue and carefully indenting
the flesh in your mouth to make it
look like a graph of your decisions,
but I'm here to tell you, that even if the blood
in your mouth were acid, it could
never melt your tongue.
Your thumbs rub against each other
in the same way the bones of
your wrist glide against the sound
of panic in your marrow,
friction between two identities with
the same print and subtle ridges,
sometimes holding on to one other only for a second,
but I'm here to tell you, that even if they chafe each other
every time you time you think, they will
find each other and acknowledge, accept, and stay.
Your nails are short and misshapen,
their length decreasing with every bead
of sweat on your brow when all they want you to do
is think, decide, act, and you know you cannot
as long as your teeth keep chewing
the skin off the tips of your fingers
and your heart beats slowly when
you panic and at the speed of light
when all you need is a slow rhythm in your chest,
but I'm here to tell you, that even if your nails
aren't long enough to scratch the angst
off your forehead, your heart, however
untimely it's speed is, will beat as long as you
keep the fight going,
it's beating, you're breathing, you're fighting.

for half an hour i kept scribbling
onto his feline forehead the sounds
i'd identify as alphabetical:
i scribbled into his cranium membrane
an omega, a beta, an alpha,
in english 26 complexities
to govern his meow - what a worthy curiosity
a cat is, readied for a sphinx -
indeed the petted animal overpowers
the intended artefact... in case of man
no more will remain than gerbils, cats, dogs,
and rabbits (inorganic, the inedible, petted,
worth a ceremonial burial),
and chickens, lambs, pigs and cows (organic,
the edible, anticipatory placebos of Holocousts) -
Kentucky would solely decipher us
having sustained ourselves on the deep fried cluck
struts... but there was me, indenting
sounds on a feline skull, writing the shape
β and uttering b'ah...
ω and uttering o'h - klepsydra enclosure -
the managed shard of alligator skin in canine
worth the bite muscular Pandora awaiting -
for half an hour i was writing such Braille onto his
cranium - but then humanity awoke with me in it,
and i learned that i was a very terrible person...
i was sitting next to Adolf when he laughed
about the good people entering heaven
stitched-up with ****-bombs talking, high on
methane rather than helium - well, it was all jokes
right up to the circumstance of burial, last rites,
and a thank you from grandma;
because i really gave a **** 20 years on.

Lets do some damage.
Lets cause a disaster.
Let us finally undo ourselves after locking the door behind us.

The look in your eyes,
Will bring me closer.
And my eyes are weakened;
Because the strength inside you,
Will give you the energy to pull me to you in silence.
My body;
Inside a glass container,
That you have broken through the air,
To get to me.
Your body;
Was so distant behind the curtains,
Until I ripped through to you.
Your grip on my hips,
Holds for just a second.
The opening of my pants,
Appears at your fingers' attention.
And then you whisper,
"Your innocence will soon be taken."
And then my response bounced back;
"It was taken so long ago.
Im not an amateaur.
I know how to perform."
Bring yourself close.
Bring yourself on top.
Just indent my lips with yours.
& dont make it passionate.
Dont go soft.
In the end your lips will bleed.
I want our hearts to beat a different rhythm.
I want our breathing to be ready for a race.
The kiss that will lead to a touch.
The touch that will lead to ***.
I wanna start kissing.
Ripped from my body,
My clothes suddenly became invisible.
Your hands acted like scissors;
In my mind,
Everything is so shattered.
There is no turning back.
And with so much force,
The bed catches me,
As you push me down.
Your hands suddenly wonder.
& your clothes are suddenly removed.
Let our minds take control.
Lets make our bodies turn colours.
My body leans on you.
Your body pulls me closer.
Now things will start to get heated up.
Are you insured?
Because we need to have coverage,
For the damage we're about to create.
The walls suddenly push our bodies with so much force.
Our eyes stab eachother so deep;
As they lock tight,
With the seriousness on our faces.
We are eachothers lessons;
We need to learn.
Our energy gets warmed up.
The power within you are secrets to show me.
The power within me are secrets to respond to you
I wanna start.
In silence,
My hands are hostage with yours.
Because Im held down so tightly.
Your lips pressing.
Your lips indenting on my neck.
Suddenly the bruises of proof showed itself.
Pierced with your mouth.
Pierced with your teeth.
One spot after another;
Like a leopard's skin,
You have marked me.
The first set of hickeys.
I want you to release me.
Unlock your hands from mine.
I want you to move out of my way,
Because this excitement is making me crazy.
"Dont talk,"
He says.
"Just relax,"
He continues.
Your hands appear tighter around me.
Finally,
My bellybutton is touched from inside my body.
Your suddenly deaf as Im screaming;
Deeper.
Harder.
Faster.
When you make sure my wrists had been marked;
The redness;
That was made while you squeezed me so tight with your strong hands.
You finally let go.
My hands suddenly wonders across your back.
My fingers move with so much pressure,
So much strength,
So much force,
As I make these marks.
Like a tiger's skin,
My nails scratch your whole body;
Up & down your back.
& you start bleeding,
As you try to control me.
I suddenly **** my up yours.
& with all the force I have,
Your pressured to be down.
Like a belly dancer without clothes,
Im performing a dance on top of you.
Its time for me to take charge.
The Kamasutra finally enters our minds.
The next step is for us to get created.
Positions force themselves into our naughty minds,
& into our bodies.
There is no such thing as the word "stop."
Through our skin,
We drown in our own sweat.
Through the mirrors,
Were covered in eachothers marks.
Through our bodies,
We've pleasured eachothers hunger.
The damage has been done.
What a beautiful disaster.
What beautiful pain.
What beautiful damage.

The tide of time has lined your skin
with high laughter marks
indenting the parts
that were once washed smooth
by the Spring tide of youth
yet are now left unhindered
by the low tide of Winter;
So they lie 'round your eyes
sunbathing in the light
that years of experience bring.

He was an ancient warrior from times of old
back in the days when the sun was new
and the stars at night were brilliant blue  
like the canopus star he once knew

Often, he was found rummaging the forest
looking for ther rarest mushrooms
as the eagles flew he counted tree rings    
indenting the roots of ancestry wings  

Then one day, he was reborn again
in an era of squabble filled with wars
silence became an oddity full of slew  
and "The Sacred" a rarity hidden in full view

They tagged him with bipolar with doctorate degree
for this was a world of medicine and mental deficiency
yesterday he howled at the moon and cloaked the stars
today he is a sad man longing for a trip to Mars

He the ancient warrior of days of old
fights the good battle everyday, with tools of old
mistletoe on oak, he held his staff
all the time knowing his time would pass

Written by: Mystic Rose
For a friend who suffers from bipolar

I believe you are talking about what I call form punctuation. This is similar to form of concrete poetry but instead of the entire poem taking on the form of the subject, varying the form of the structure at strategic places enhances the impact of a particular word of line. This is most commonly done by isolating the word or line in a verse with space above and below, but can also be done by "indenting" the start of a line. I like to use this type punctuation in descriptive free verse, but alas the site doesn't presently allow such without double spacing lines which dilutes impact. Visual presentation can actually place limited imagery directly on the page

asserting sleepless wounds cut like a knife
indenting and pulling splinters from tables
it tastes of forest paths
fungi returning sky to syllables
acres of where
veils descend upon twirled twine
fraying between fingers
frantic
numbing
november rains writing cursive letters
fastening the earth
slanting struck match
l’épée of cedar within smoke
upon incense glow
they assemble reeds
in dying light, retreat, stories upon dreams upon memories within our never-ending

the wall fell away: sun evaporates landscape, the cars, the ever present concrete, orchids resurrect inside, clawing fern wallpaper flowering baby’s breath doused in illustrious orange light thick as down blankets
graphite illuminates curves of bodies, a womb and a heart, 1063 degrees of interconnected

living in a greenhouse, northern frosted January feathers wood paneled, southern carpeted floor
salt covered opaque film
musty smell of ancestral altars
pianos tuned in the last century sing Austrian lullabies, purple wood peeled back, smiling gaps of teeth veneer cinnamon hues
the spirits of those we never met
but share cupids bow, brown eyes, high cheekbones,
the hunt for the perfect wine cap

the daughter will have a daughter, the sun crests over the mortar, up delicate tendrils of transpiring verdant circumnavigators
it’s midnight and the sun hasn’t moved an inch —// it spreads between webs of fingers, behind my teeth.  pulsing red clay with fingerprints, rabbit tracks, deer paths carving the canyon as spirits float by ‘’’
attune to them, sulfur in the dark

winter threads needle’s eye
turning wheels again and daughter knows
what grandmother thought
of sumac and dogbane, oxeye daisy and lemon balm
crescent moons imbedded in palms,
striped shells from freshwater creek click against teeth
trusted within sand, ever-present spine, joining figments and childhood never-ending
sand spills through fingers, breath before the ocean, terracotta speckling periphery of view

I can imagine, now, what she sounds like